


Paved Road

by BoomyMcBlasty



Series: Between the Lines [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Scheming, Spoilers for the Blue Lions route, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-26 00:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20921510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoomyMcBlasty/pseuds/BoomyMcBlasty
Summary: “I think we have frolicked around enough.” Ingrid passes him the jacket. “Plus, you still need to teach me some Almyran.”His eyes glitter with delight, and this time it’s not an illusion played by the fire. “Do you still remember the sentence I taught you yesterday?”After the war has ended and Fódlan is united, Claude leaves for Almyra and brings Ingrid with him. He also executes one of his most brilliant schemes thus far.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in an alternate version of Azure Moon in which the Alliance and the Kingdom didn't fight each other at Gronder Field.  
Hegemon Edelgard is defeated in Enbarr, Dimitri rules the new Holy Kingdom of Fódlan and Byleth is Archbishop.
> 
> Check out the [beautiful collage](https://twitter.com/soultyghost/status/1190640352148873218) inspired by this fic that [soultyghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soultyghost/pseuds/soultyghost) made ♥

“Hey, Ingrid.” They’re flying over Galatea territory. Ingrid feels a stab in her chest whenever her eyes fall on the barren fields and the skinny farm animals of her territory. Claude’s conversation is a nice distraction. “Aren’t you technically a Daphnel?”

“House Galatea is a branch of House Daphnel, yes.” Arthur, her horned pegasus, senses her discomfort and neighs. In exchange for Lúin, Galatea received the barren half of the Daphnel territory, prone to long and harsh winters.

Claude steers his white wyvern closer. “So you’re a distant relative of Judith.”

“The Hero of Daphnel… yes!”

Can the people down below recognize her when they wave at her? Can they see her atop her winged steed, delaying the inevitable? Starving and desperate, do they hate her for not doing what she must do, yet dreads with all her being?

“You’re making a weird face, there.” Even Claude sounds concerned. “You OK?”

“No, I’m not.” She doesn’t know where to look; she doesn’t know what to do. 

She gave her word to Claude, promised to act as his bodyguard on his way to Almyra. She has a couple of days to decide what she will tell her father, to prepare her speech to him, and then…

“And here I thought that my handsome presence could distract you from your woes.”

Ingrid frowns. “Are you calling yourself handsome?” He is, especially when he smirks just like that and the wind tousles his hair, but that is not the point. “Where were you when the Goddess was handing out humility?”

“I was at the line for ‘knows how to have fun’. Didn’t see _ you _there.”

Ingrid knows what he’s doing. He’s summoning her ‘angry lines’ again to make her focus on something else. He will get what he’s working so hard for.

“I’ll let you know I have _ plenty _of fun.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do not ‘uh huh’ me!” Arthur neighs in distress and she lowers her voice. “And use full sentences to convey your thoughts, you are not an infant.”

“Why should I, when those two sounds are enough to express all my disbelief and more.” He really is infuriatingly handsome. That wicked smirk has no right to make her feel weak.

“See? A full sentence. It’s not that hard.”

Instead of talking, Claude makes his eyebrows flash upwards. 

“Claude!”

It’s almost as if he enjoys seeing her get mad...

They set up camp in Goneril territory, in a forest untouched by the skirmishes at the border. A small fire crackles happily at the center of a small clearing, and some fallen trees make for some rather comfortable chairs. Once her tent is ready, Ingrid tends to her pegasus. 

“Sorry for scaring you today.” She slips a treat out of her pocket and Arthur munches on the carrot with gusto. “You were wonderful, even when I was distracted. Thank you.”

Just one treat won’t cut it, he has flown her from Fhirdiad to Fódlan’s Throat. She undoes Arthur’s loose plaits and brushes the long, white hair. He stands still, looking at her with his big, gentle eyes and enjoying the grooming. There are some flowers on the ground, perhaps she could adorn his hair with it? She hasn’t made him feel pretty in a long time. The delicate yellow petals would look amazing in the braids.

Ingrid starts twisting the long hair of the horned pegasus; the flower sits in the middle of the plait like a dream.

“You look lovely like this, Arthur!”

She turns to pick another flower, but finds it in Claude’s hand instead. He’s leaning against a tree, with the formal sash and cape gone from his attire. “If you are lonely, you have me to talk to, just saying.”

Ingrid takes the flower and places it in another braid. “If Arthur doesn’t get some one-on-one attention, he gets skittish.” Her steed reads her mind and faces Claude, lowering his head to point the horn at him. She distracts him with another carrot.

“Pegasi always interested me. I assume he doesn’t want me to touch him?”

“He is bred to tolerate your presence, but not your touch.”

Claude takes a step forward, something that Arthur does not appreciate. He seems undeterred from the neigh, so Ingrid takes his arm and drags him away from the pegasus. “I’d be a terrible bodyguard if I let my own steed maim you.”

Claude doesn’t seem to perceive the actual danger of the situation. “I appreciate the use of such descriptive language.” 

“It drives the point across, doesn’t it?”  
Her hand is still around his arm. She lets him go and Claude smirks. “Why does he hate men?”

“He doesn’t _ hate _men… once I threw an injured Felix over him and Arthur flew back to Mercie without complaints.”

Claude hums and looks at the horned pegasus with renewed respect. Ingrid feels exceptionally proud of her Arthur.

“Then I tried it with Sylvain and… well. It did not happen.”

“So he likes virgins.”

Ingrid feels her cheeks heat up and sputters a correction: “P-pure hearted individuals, you mean.”

His eyes fall on her. His smirk is devilish and absolutely unfair. “Do you need to take a vow of chastity to become a pegasus knight?”

“Claude.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, I’m asking because I actually want to know.”

“Having.... intimate encounters doesn’t make a pegasus hate you.” There, she said it. “Being a conniving individual, on the other hand…”

He raises a hand on his chest, theatrically. “You wound me.”

“Take it as a compliment, then.”

Ingrid takes another treat from her pouch and walks back to Arthur, who has been following the conversation with his horn pointed at Claude the whole time.

“You’re spoiling him.”

“Absolutely.”

She takes the curry comb from another pouch and starts grooming his beautiful short hair. It’s routine for Ingrid, and that makes it a dangerous activity; her mind goes back to the decision she will need to make soon.

“You’re making that face again.” Claude sits on a rock closeby and looks at her with a peculiar expression of his own.

Arthur bumps his head gently against her arm and she pets him. She doesn’t answer Claude.

“Can’t you just toss a coin and accept the result?”

Is Claude serious? Ingrid looks at him, without interrupting the grooming.

“Head for a future as a knight, tails for a future as a bride.”

“This decision will change my life.” Arthur neighs as to echo her words. “I will not leave it to a coin toss.”

“You have been undecided for how many years? Six or more.”

She doesn’t have a comeback for that. It’s true.

“What if there was a third option?”

Ingrid looks at the comb in her hand. “There is no such option.”

“You’re not looking well enough.” Of course Claude makes it sound easy.

“If I become a knight for His Majesty, I won’t be able to marry.”

“Gilbert managed to produce Annette just fine…”

She turns to face him, scandalized. “_ Produce _!”

“You know what I mean.” He dismisses her with a movement of his hand. “And I bet that becoming a meek wife is not what you want.”

“It’s what my father wants.” She puts the curry comb back in the appropriate pouch. She didn’t know that she needed to focus to do a good job. “He’s been talking with House Gautier… Sylvain would allow me to stay on his side on the battlefield, to defend the Sreng border.”

Claude’s eyes flash of an emotion she has never seen on him. “Why are you not choosing that option, then?” The usual cheer is gone from his voice.

Ingrid frowns. “Because it’s Sylvain and I have self-respect.”

“That is something I admire in you.”

In two easy strides, Claude is at her side. Arthur puts his horned head between the two, and that forces Claude to retreat. “Easy.”

“He really doesn’t like you…”

“He’s smart. I also wouldn’t like me.”

Claude leaves with his bow to hunt their dinner. The fragrant air of the forest carries a mean chill, and Ingrid is glad she’s wearing several layers. Arthur and Claude’s white wyvern are becoming friends over their meal.

Claude comes back with two rabbits and they prepare the meat on skewers in silence.

“I think you should learn some Almyran,” he tells her over dinner.

Ingrid finishes chewing the meat before answering. “Almyra speaks a different language?”

They’re sitting around the campfire; the flames make pretty shadows dance on Claude’s face, make his eyes glitter.

“Cyril and I are not a very good example of the average Almyran.”

“When we went to defend the Locket, the Almyran soldiers we fought were speaking Fódlanese.”

“Those who grow up at the border are usually bilingual, unless you’re called Hilda.”

Sylvain does speak the language of Sreng as well, he’s right. 

“How does your name sound in Almyran, Claude?”

With a smile, he speaks it. The C is breathier, softer, and the vowels become one. It’s similar enough that she thinks she can recognize it.

Ingrid tries to repeat it, and that makes Claude chuckle. “A good first attempt.”

With glittering eyes, he then says something in Almyran, something that sounds like her name. She points at herself and he nods.

“Oh, that’s not too different.”

“It’s a name that doesn’t exist in Almyran, after all.”

“Say your name again, I want to learn it.”

It takes her several tries, but eventually she is able to pronounce it correctly. She calls Claude by name, proud of her achievement, and the look he gives her is filled with elation. “I never thought that one day I’d hear you say that.”

His words make her face feel warm. “Why did you hide your heritage from the others? I’m sure nobody would have minded.”

His smile grows a tad colder. Did she overstep her boundaries? Before he can answer, she asks: “Can you teach me something simple? Something like _ I apologize, I can’t understand _ when I am addressed?”

Claude relaxes his shoulders again. “What happened to ‘using full sentences to convey your thoughts’, Ingrid?”

“I’m trying to keep it simple.”

His smile grows wider. “You know, we’ll end up in front of the King.” ...of course. He’s related to the Royal Family, after all. “Shouldn’t you learn the official greeting?”

“Good idea. Please, teach me!”

He produces a long sentence, and the only word she recognizes is his own name.

“Why am I mentioning you?”

“Well, you are first listing all of the King’s official titles… then you greet him, and state that you accompanied me there.”

Sounds about right. “Is the last part necessary?”

“I can simplify it.”

“Say it again, slowly.”

Almyra’s language uses some sounds she has never attempted in her life; Claude tells her to focus on his lips and she feels something in her chest jump when she observes how his pretty mouth moves, how his jaw is lined by the scruffy beard and his eyes are fully focused on her.

Ingrid tries her best to repeat after Claude, word by word, chunk by chunk, until she can say the whole sentence by herself.

“Great. You’re a natural!”

Has he always been so quick to praise her? “I’ll need some brushing up tomorrow.”

His next question makes her good mood drop. “Are you sure you don’t want to spend some days over?”

Ingrid doesn’t answer. Claude scoots over with the skewes still in his hand, empty. “Still worried about your father and your Kingliness?”

“I owe both so much.”

“That’s the wrong mindset to have.”

“But it’s true.” She looks at her own hands, folded in her lap. “My father needs a dowry to help our territory. And His Majesty—”

“He’s a married man; the only woman he needs is Teach, not you.”

Ingrid frowns at him. Claude is not Sylvain, so she can’t very well insult him. He’s also related to the Almyran Royal Family, so hitting him is out of the question, sadly. _ Too bad. _

Claude looks too amused for her tastes. “If only you could see your own face… you look ready for murder.”

“I was saying…” He’s going to turn her own words against her. “Actually, nevermind.”

He places a hand on her knee, briefly. “Ingrid. Promise me something.” It’s unlike him to look so serious all of a sudden.

“I’m listening.”

“When you see a third option… consider it for real.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this mysterious third option, Claude.” Ingrid tries to keep the mood light. “I hope it’s not another one of your schemes.”

“We’re talking about your future, here. I wouldn’t dare—”

“You gambled on the future of the Alliance while we were retaking Fhirdiad. You would.”

Claude concedes with a handsome smile that turns into a yawn.

“Oh no, I’m so tired…” Ingrid glares at him and he covers up his mouth at the last second. “I must really rest. Good night, Ingrid; thank you for taking the first night watch shift.”

She feels generous that night and lets him go.

“Good night, Claude.”

Nights are unkind and lonely.

The war has made her paranoid. She sees Edelgard’s monstrous face lurking in the woods, tree branches like her long, sharp arms. Wolf howls sound like the rabid screams of His Majesty, when he was still not himself. The rustling of the leaves could be telltale signs of a Demonic Beast.

She looks at her breastplate and boots piled on the ground. Wearing her armor would make her feel safer. She’s used to sleep in it, after all, even if it’s not proper.

Arthur would sense danger and alert her, she tells herself, gripping her spear tightly.

Ingrid stands watch until Claude crawls outside his tent, in the middle of the night.

“You need rest too, you know.” His voice is soft and Ingrid allows herself to nod, sleepily.

He sits next to her, yet she does not leave her post.

He takes the spear from her hands and places it on the ground. “I’m too much of a gentleman to drag you to your tent.”

“Good.”

That makes him chuckle.

Her head propped over something soft and warm. She rubs her face on it, trying to hide from the light. It smells nice...

“Good morning, sunshine~”

It’s Claude’s lap. She just rubbed her face on Claude’s lap. Ingrid jolts up, suddenly wide awake. Her face is about to combust. What she did was _ inappropriate _! She has no excuse.

“What?” he asks, unbothered.

...did she fall asleep on his lap or did he play a prank on her and pulled her in? Should she get mad or apologize?

“Looks like you’re struggling a bit with your words, there. Relax.”

“I apologize,” she says stiffly, with a curt bow.  
“Why? Meditating while keeping completely still is a skill I’m still perfectioning, and you helped me.”

She squints, trying to see the deception in his words. He’s grinning like a smug cat; he must have pulled her in his lap to see her flustered.

“If you want to refresh yourself, there is a brook over there.” Claude points at the trees behind her. He’s giving her an easy out.

“Thank you, I’ll do just that.” Ingrid fishes a cloth from her tent and marches into the trees. The small stream of water makes for a lovely scene, and the chirping birds distract her with their song. She can only allow herself a quick rinse; her hair will need to wait. She discards her clothes and dips her feet into the chilly water. The brook is shallow enough to reach her mid-calf. She scrubs the sleep from her body, working to appear presentable in front of the King, later in the day.

Surprisingly, Claude doesn’t try to strike a conversation from the camp. He is a gentleman… when he wants to be.

When she walks back to the camp, fully dressed and feeling more like herself, it’s Claude’s turn. He has already discarded his jacket, and his undershirt is unbuttoned.

Ingrid knows that starting is highly inappropriate, but her eyes roam on the fine hair on his chest and she likes it too much for her own good. He must be doing it on purpose.

She scolds him weakly. “Start undressing once you’re alone, not at the camp!” 

“But I _ was _alone. Shouldn’t you have warned me that you were coming?”

She crouches next to her armor and takes the metal boots in her hands. _ Any _excuse not to look at him.

“You risked an arrow to your pretty face.” There he goes again with the teasing.

“As if you could have hit me.”

“I’m not sure if this is a jab at my skills or a display of overconfidence. Either way, I’m intrigued.” Instead of leaving the camp he sits on a rock and leans forward; Ingrid steals a glance, just one at the muscles hidden behind the open undershirt. She wears the armored boots and starts working on the clasps of her chestplate. It almost looks like he’s _ begging _for a lecture.

“Shouldn’t you go refresh yourself, Claude—or do you want to appear in front of the King with not one but two days of sweat? That’s hardly proper, even for you.”

“How curious.” He stands up slowly, with a mischievous smile. “It didn’t seem like you minded it too much, this morning.”

Ingrid drops the chestplate to the ground and scrambles on her feet, ready to hurt him. “Come here and say it to my face!”

With a laugh, Claude hides in the trees. “I just did~”

She runs into the forest as well, looking around. “I knew it was you who arranged the whole situation.”

“Oh no, I’ve been found out~”

She should be mad, but the glee in his voice is making her chest tingle. His voice came from the left, and instead of rushing in, Ingrid walks slowly, hoping the leaves won’t give her position away.

Claude is not as imposing as His Majesty, but he still cannot hide behind the lean trunks of the nearby trees. When she sees a speck of white lying on the bark—the sleeve of his shirt?—she fakes a lunge. She knows better, she is chasing _ Claude _of all people. She twirls around and her vision is obscured by him. Her arms are caught by strong hands that press her on a very warm and very naked and delightfully firm chest.

Ingrid blinks once, blinks twice.

“You were not supposed to turn around,” he says with a soft voice.

She feels like the heroine of one of the saucy novels that Ashe is _ definitely _not reading in secret. She knows, from some very shameful skimming of said literature, that her predicament is indeed meant to make her heart skip several beats, and that a common resolution is a kiss. She is not ready for that. His thin hair tickles her face and Goddess, he has no right to smell that nice. His arms around her make her feel giddy; his jacket hides some impressive muscles.

She pinches his side—and has hardly anything to pinch—and he lets her go with a yelp. “Hey! What was that for?!”

He has been dragging her from one inappropriate situation to the other; he knows fully well what he has done. What’s in it for him, though?

“Payback.” She marches through the woods and has to fight a little voice in her head that tells her to steal a proper glance at the half-naked man behind her. “I’ll go saddle Arthur and your wyvern while you do whatever you are going to do.”

She almost expects him to come back to the camp naked and dripping with water, an image that she concocts in her mind almost too easily, but his shirt is closed and his hair dry.

Their tents are already folded neatly on the back of her horned pegasus.

“Scary efficient, Ingrid! Do you want to get rid of me that badly?” His easy smile softens his words.

“I wouldn’t want to be late.”

He seems almost back to normal. “Of course.”  
“I think we have frolicked around enough.” She passes him the jacket. “Plus, you still need to teach me some Almyran.”

His eyes glitter with delight, and this time it’s not an illusion played by the fire. “Do you still remember the sentence I taught you yesterday?”

They fly over the Throat practicing some easy words. Gradually, the trees become scarcer and shorter, and stubby bushes litter the golden sand. It’s not the desert, not quite yet, but it’s warm and Ingrid regrets keeping her fur collar on. Shepards greet them from below and she waves back at them. Fodlan and Almyra aren’t so different, after all.

“That’s the capital.” Claude points at a city right below the horizon. “And our final destination.”

The journey is a straight line, easy to remember but boring for Arthur. On the way back, she’ll make sure to spice it up with some landmarks visiting and some more treats.

The Almyran capital reminds her of the colorful Enbarr. The houses form intricate streets, and the squares are ornate with flowers and market stalls. The palace is lavish and hidden behind tall walls, just like the one in Fhirdiad.

They land in the gardens, paved with marble; Claude is first, and at the sight of his white wyvern, an attendant leaves the shade to take the reins.

Claude says something in Almyran and a second attendant, this time a woman, comes to take care of Arthur.

“Thank you for your hard work.” Ingrid presses her face on his nozzle. “I’ll be back soon. Be good to them, you hear me?”

Arthur looks at her with his big, intelligent eyes, and nods.

Ingrid gives the reins to the attendant and he follows her without any neighs or stomping.

Claude waits for her at the side. “That was quick.”

“The attendant knows what she’s doing. Even if she doesn’t know the commands, Arthur is weak to treats.”

They walk through the main gates, heavily guarded. The architecture might be different, but Ingrid can make educated guesses about the function of the buildings at the sides of the paved road. A delightful smell comes from the kitchens and the servants fret over the gardens, come and go from the palace with laundry and plates.

The shade inside of the palace is a welcome break from the heat outside. The fur collar Ingrid’s wearing makes her feel incredibly stuffy.

Claude walks her to the throne room. Ingrid blinks a couple of times and looks around at the silk banners and ornate carpets. It’s _ empty _.

“Claude?”

“Yes?” He appears unbothered.

Ingrid doesn’t know how to phrase her question.

“If you’re wondering why the King’s not here, well… he’s not going to change his whole schedule around just for me.”

Curious. If someone could make a King adjusts his schedule, it could very well be someone able to access the throne room, someone greeted by every guard with nods or bows. There’s something that Claude is not telling her. He walks around with practiced ease, and Ingrid wants to see just how much he and the King resemble each other. Her gut feeling is telling her that Claude minimized his relation to the Almyran Crown.

A loud voice interrupts her train of thoughts. A much older version of Claude enters the room, robed lavishly. The King has glorious long hair and a long beard as well; he’s bulky like a soldier used to swinging heavy weapons.

Dread fills Ingrid. Claude is a prince? Or maybe _ the _ Prince? And she _ pinched _him?

Claude informally greets the King in Almyran. He looks at her and mentions her name; that’s her cue: she bows and produces the formal greeting he taught her.

The King’s eyes grow wide before a loud guffaw echoes in the room.

Did she make a mistake?

“Well done!” he tells her in perfect Fódlanese. Of course. He did marry the daughter of the late Duke Riegan, after all. “May I know your name?”

She bows again. “I’m Ingrid Brandl Galatea, from the Holy Kingdom of Fódlan. I hail from former Faerghus territory.”

“Thank you for escorting my son here. I take he didn’t cause you any trouble?” How informal, she thinks, before remembering how Dimitri and Byleth, the King and the Archbishop, insisted on hugging her when she left Fhirdiad.

Claude looks uncharacteristically sheepish. Ingrid grins and see his eyes flash with worry. So even he is scared of someone...

“No trouble at all, Your Majesty.”

“I’m glad to hear that!” He claps his hands together. “I take that Claude already invited you to spend some days at the palace.” The way the King says his name is more Almyran than Fódlanese, it’s almost cute.

Claude throws her a side-glance.

Is she allowed to delay the answer to her father?

“He did. I accept your renewed, kind offer, Your Majesty.”


	2. Chapter 2

When the Almyran King leaves to attend to his duties, Ingrid needs a minute—several would be preferable—to order her thoughts. Claude, of course, doesn’t let her.

“You OK there? You look a bit shaken up.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he acts casual, leaning against a column.

_ Claude’s royal title not a big deal _, she tells herself. It totally is, but didn’t His Majesty also insist on keeping his relationship with his former classmates informal, despite being King? After all they went through together, it feels like a low blow to treat him differently—that is exactly what Claude doesn’t want, Ingrid is sure of it.

“Didn’t I almost risk a war with Almyra by hitting you?” she asks with a grimace.

Claude furrows his brows in confusion before chuckling, eyes warm with glee. “You, cracking a joke? Are you in that much shock?” 

She can feel the weight of his gaze on her as it lingers enough to be appropriate yet deliberately skirting that line. She holds it and that seems to satisfy Claude.

“Don’t worry,” he tells her with a handsome smile. “I’ll make sure to use any unsavory thing you say against _ you _, not against the Kingdom.”

“Claude.” She crosses her arms. “When have I ever said something unsavory?”

“Plenty of times, back in our Academy days.”

Despite the light tone, Claude’s words hit her like a whiplash; the things she told Dedue, what she said about the people of Duscur, unfairly blamed for the Tragedy—her own harsh words come back and pile on her shoulders, make her slouch under their weight. She didn’t know at the time and needed an easy target, but that is not an excuse. 

Claude’s smile drops as he realizes his mistake. “That was a low blow, wasn’t it.” He walks next to her and hesitates. His hand lingers in the air before dropping to his side.

“No, you are right.” She fixes her posture and returns his gaze. “I said plenty of disgusting things, words that I regret saying.”

Claude’s gaze returns on her. “At least you’re owning up to your mistakes.”

“A knight could do no less.”

He is close, has been for the past minute, but Ingrid just realizes it. Without giving her time to steal a glance, he leans in to whisper something to her ear.

“You…” She has never heard his voice so low. Why is she holding her breath? “You smell like horse.”

Of course she does, they’ve been flying all morning long! “And _ you _ smell like wyvern!” She pushes him away, feeling her cheeks flaming hot. “Yet _ I _ am polite and understanding enough to keep it to myself.”

Claude chuckles. “I’ll go retrieve our stuff from the stables. How about you enjoy a bath in the meanwhile?”

She smells her shoulder. Surely it can’t be _ that _bad? “Thank you for your gracious offer.”

He yells something in Almyran and two attendants enter the room a second after. “Follow them. If it hurts, just tell them no and they will be gentler.”

“Claude? A bath is not supposed to hurt.”

He leaves with a wave of his hand and a poorly concealed smirk. The attendants look at her, politely, waiting.

“Claude?!”

House Galatea never had funds for valets; Ingrid has never been under the care of servants, and the language barrier makes her feel overwhelmed. The attendants patiently mime for her the steps of the bath. They scrub her vigorously and let her choose an oil for the massage; after a warm rinse they cover her in a fluffy cloth and let her drink tea—mint, her favorite—while they untangle her hair and wash it.

Is she allowed such luxuries? She feels almost out of place.

Her clothes, still damp, hang in a spot bathed by sunlight. They are dry when she is done; her armor and cape are stored in a satchel, together with her gloves. She debates whether or not to keep the corset on—she’s already wearing two layers, she doesn’t want to melt—and decides to go for it.

Claude is waiting for her outside the bathhouse. His eyes widen when he sees her. “I didn’t know your hair was still long.”

“Not all of it.” Ingrid turns her head to show him the short hair on the back of her head. She only kept long hair on the sides. “Didn’t you have a bath to enjoy as well?”

“I’m already done.” When he comes closer, a faint scent of spices lingers in the air. His hair is still damp, and the simple jacket he’s wearing makes him look comfortable. Ingrid likes that look on him... and she pushes the thought aside. “So, how did you like the bath?”

“I didn’t expect it to be so energizing,” she confesses. “I almost want to take a ride on Arthur or hit the training grounds… but I’d feel bad for ruining their work.”

“I have to make you hungry, in one way or another…” He tilts his head and Ingrid feels his devilish smirk in her chest. “There’s a feast this evening you _ need _to attend.”

His words pique her attention. What sort of delicious food is served at Almyran banquets?

“Your mouth is already watering, I can see it from here.”

Her cheeks flare up from embarrassment. “Yes, I am looking forward to it.” 

Claude claps his hands. “Excellent. Shall I show you your quarters?” He points at the satchel in her hands. “Let’s drop that off.”

A comfortable silence settles between them as they walk; Ingrid looks around, focusing on the faces in the portraits hanging in the halls. Fódlan’s recorded history started a bit more than a thousand years ago; when did Almyra’s start? Generations upon generations of rulers watch over the palace, more ancient than the former Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.

“Here we are.”

Claude lets her enter first. Ingrid is relieved to see that her room resembles the one she used in Garreg Mach during the war; the carpet and curtains are the only ornate things in the small space, that contains a simple dresser, a desk and a large bed.

The armor pieces inside the satchel clang when she places it on the chair.

When she turns to face Claude, he is close—she feels a pang in her chest;_ too close _ . She can smell the fragrant oil used in his massage, and now she is blushing, trying _ not _to imagine him lazing on a stone slab with a content expression and a remarkable lack of clothes.

Claude reaches out with his hand. His fingers thread in the long hair that frames her face. He combs it distractly under her ear, looking pensive. What did she do to earn such a gesture?

“What are you doing?” Ingrid doesn’t sound like her usual self. Her voice is so breathy…

She grabs his wrist, stopping his ministrations, and that makes him look into her eyes. His are green as well, half-lidded, full of promises.

“I was thinking of bringing you somewhere.” His voice is almost as low as a whisper. “Then I got distracted.”

She lets his wrist go. The proper thing to do would be to step back as well, but Ingrid can’t bring herself to do it.

Claude’s lips curve in a smile. “You need to tie this up. Wouldn’t want your hair to get tangled in a bow.”

Bow. Target practice. A military matter, a routine activity. He must have thought of all the possible way her hair could get in the way—Felix used to whine about the same to her. That is not it, of course, but she pretends to think innocently.

She parts from him. “It will take me some time.”

Claude leans against the wall and she sits on the bed, working her hair with expert fingers. His eyes stay on her the whole time.

“I’m surprised to see you can do your hair by yourself,” he says after she loops the braids behind her head. “I assumed Mercedes or Annette were behind it.”

“Should I feel flattered or offended?” Ingrid takes the pin lying on her lap and secures the braid.

He doesn’t answer. Once Ingrid is done, she stands up to look in the mirror. Claude’s reflection has a pensive expression, a slight pout. She turns her head to make sure she did an adequate job, but she is focused on Claude’s eyes, slowly roaming over her body. She should probably say something, but the words die in her throat. A wild idea crosses her mind—arching her back and seeing his reaction—but she _ can’t _. Her rational self won’t allow it. Claude’s eyes meet hers in the mirror and he jolts away from the wall. Even he can feel some shame, huh.

“Let’s go.”

“My old training instructor will come as well.”

After a quick visit to the stables, they went to the practice range. Claude’s quiver is still half full, and Ingrid decided to throw javelins instead of practicing with bow and arrow.

“I’m afraid you’ll jump in to protect me, so—”

Ingrid cocks an eyebrow, confused.

“It’s a little tradition we have, to attack each other when we meet.” Claude’s sheepish grin is a welcome change of pace for her heart. He almost manages to look _ cute _. “So if you see a weapon thrown at me, don’t worry.”

“Unless it’s going to kill you.”

Claude is quick to dismiss her worries. “I’ll be fine.”

Ingrid decides to keep her eyes peeled during the feast and make sure that no stray weapons will hurt the Prince. She weighs the javelin and adjusts her grip.

She is about to throw it when she hears some Almyran.

“Oh, she’s back as well,” comments Claude, placing the quiver on the ground. “That’s why the old man was so quick to agree.”

Ingrid lowers her weapon, trying to ignore the casual _ old man _ thrown at the King of all people.

“Who is back?”

“My mother.”

An attendant is left to take care of the practice range. Claude bring her to where they landed themselves some hours before. The Queen has a rather sizeable welcome party; not a single soul was there for Claude. The realization makes her search his face, but his easy smile doesn’t betray any sad thoughts.

Claude greets a small number of men, dressed just like him, and they nod back before resuming their conversation. A bigger group of people is gathered on the side of the marble-paved road; they approach Claude once they notice him and formally greet him. They are men, women and children; their robes and jackets are simpler and probably indicate humble origins. Some steal a glance at Ingrid and she smiles, unsure of what to do.

Wyverns appear from the mountains.

“A battalion?” she asks, more to herself than to Claude.

“Uh-huh,” he answers, looking at the sky.

Ingrid elbows him lightly. “Full sentences!”

“The Almyran army is led by both the King and the Queen.” Ingrid’s eyes grow wide. The Queen, leader of the army? Edelgard took the title of Emperor instead of Empress _ to _ lead the army. Even in the tales of old, queens are soft and in the palace. “She’s back from… Morfis, I think.”

The battalion lands, led by a dark-haired woman on top of a white wyvern. A chorus of voices greet them. The Queen dismounts first, talks to the well-dressed men and waves at Claude with a beautiful smile.

Ingrid, still stunned, doesn’t know what to think.

As soon as the other soldiers dismount, they are surrounded by the welcome party—their families.

“Look who’s here.” Before Ingrid can bow to her, the Queen reaches them and pinches Claude’s cheek.

“Mom!” He swats away her hand with a pout. Cute...

“What, are you afraid I’ll embarrass you in front of your guest?”

Claude has her green eyes and stature. That is probably not a compliment…

She looks stunning in her golden battle gear, similar to the one Claude donned during the war.

Ingrid bows to the Queen. “I hope you had an easy journey, Your Majesty. I’m Ingrid Brandl Galatea, from the Holy Kingdom of Fódlan.”

“My, how formal.”

“Speaking of, Ingrid, what happened to the formal greeting I taught you?”

She doesn’t like to feel flustered like that. “I thought it listed the _ King _’s official titles, and as such, was to be used only with the King.”

The Queen grins. “Let’s hear it anyways.”

Ingrid bows again and repeats the long sentence Claude taught her. When she’s done, the Queen claps politely with a grin that reminds Ingrid of Claude’s own. “How wonderful! I take that you’ll join tonight’s festivities?”

“Of course. I’ll be there.”

The feast does make her uncomfortable, at the beginning. She is sitting next to Claude, at the left of the King. She has no right to sit so close to Almyran Royalty, and the glances that the guests steal make her feel small. She does not understand a single word of the King’s speech. Claude’s old instructor shows up, but instead of throwing an axe to him, he guffaws just like the King and plops down on a table, ready to eat. 

When the plates starts pouring in from the kitchen, Ingrid forgets her woes. Food has no language barrier, after all. She tells as much to Claude, when he asks her how she’s liking the meat.

“There’s even more coming, you know?”

Ingrid looks sadly at her plate, already empty. “I don’t have enough space in my stomach.”

Claude laughs and wraps an arm around her shoulders. His eyes are glossy from the sweet wine he was forced to accept from his father. “Want to dance?” He must see the panic in her face because he adds, quickly: “Not in front of everyone. I know just the spot.”

The music in the hall is different from the waltzes of Fódlan, and she can’t even dance those very well. “If you insist…”

“I do.”

Claude says something to his parents and they laugh and nod. That must be a good sign.

Ingrid follows him behind a door hidden by a drape and then down some stairs, until they reach a small garden right below the dining hall.

The scent of flowers manages to cover the fumes of the feast, and the music is barely dulled by the voices of the guests. The moon light is bright, yet some candles are lit and cast a warm glow over the marble.

“It’s a lovely corner.”

“Mmh.” Before she can elbow him again, he adds: “It is.”

Ingrid wants to look at him sternly, but can’t help a grin of her own. “He _ learns _.”

He walks next to her and she puts a hand on his shoulder, just like she was instructed when she was a child taking dancing lessons. 

“We can’t waltz to this,” he says softly, shaking his head.

Ingrid doesn’t retract her hand. She should. The candles are lit because he planned to bring her there. She has been by his side enough, during the war, to know that Claude doesn’t leave things to fate. He schemes and he plans, and apparently needs the sweet wine as an excuse, an additional line of defense, in case things go wrong.

His body is warm and close. Ingrid is drawn to it, wants to feel against her own, but she can’t. Her father deserves an answer. His Majesty deserves an answer. She hasn’t been able to come up with one just yet.

“You are so harsh with yourself,” he tells her with a voice so low, so velvety. “That’s why you don’t allow yourself to slip and fall into my trap.”

“You laid a trap for me.” Ingrid whispers as well. Claude is so close, she can count his eyelashes, she can see the thin scars in his eyebrows.

He tilts his head slightly and his earring rests on his jaw. “It doesn’t seem to be working.”

Her other hand touches his beard, feels the scruffy hair that lines his face. “What makes you say so?”

His breath tickles her ear. The tightness in her chest is back, makes her whole body feel ready to spring. “If it was working, instead of being consumed by lust, I’d be doing _ something _to quench it.”

His playful grin drops when he sees her face.

Isn’t that the reason he gave both such an easy excuse to back out? Ingrid pushes him away. “It’s the wine,” she says, still feeling the burning warmth of his hardness pressing on her thigh.

_ Scared _. A knight is not supposed to be scared.

She is. This is not one of Sylvain’s empty attempts, this is real and Claude’s, and she only knows how to reject, not how to correct his course. _ Too direct, too soon. _

Ingrid offers him her hand. “Let’s go back upstairs?”

Claude nods and accepts it. He looks at her and she squeezes his hand with a small smile.

The hall is stuffy and noisy. The King welcomes them back and, even without understanding him, Ingrid can imagine what he’s saying. _ Back already? _

Claude doesn’t touch the rest of the wine. Ingrid, still a bit shaky, lets the food work its magic, and empties two more plates before being sated and content. She covers a yawn with her hand.

“Shall I walk you to your chambers?”

“Please.”

They leave the feast in silence. This time, Ingrid feels like she should fill it. He guides her in moonlit halls and marble passages until her door is in sight. Before he can leave, Ingrid grabs his wrist. Claude looks at her with surprise before lowering his eyes.

“You are on edge.”

“I’m angry with myself.” He’s avoiding her gaze. “I scared you.”

“You did.” She pulls his wrist and he dares to meet her eyes. “I have never… that was…”

Uncharted territory. She never had to be courted, engaged by birth as she was, and the romance literature she occasionally perused only showed her success. The heroines of those novels knew just what to do, unlike her.

“For me as well.”

“Somehow I have trouble believing it.” It’s a light quip, a peace offering, and he accepts it.

“I might know the theory, but the practical application can lead to some… crude results.”

“Duly noted.”

She is still holding his wrist. An idea flashes in her mind, innocent enough. Just how King Loog bid farewell to the Maiden of Wind after their first night together, she brings his hand to her lips and places a small kiss right above the knuckles. “Good night, Claude.”

The last thing she sees before closing the door is his mouth agape and his eyes, green and wide and so pretty.

The light peeking from the curtains wakes her up gently. She had a dreamless night, something she is grateful for, given the events of the past evening. As soon as she thinks that, her mind recalls the image she concocted the day before, of a very naked Claude relaxing in the bath and motioning for her to join him. Wait, that part is new.

Ingrid hides her face in the pillow, muffling a cry. That is _ wrong _!

A creaky sound makes her search the room; there’s a square hole in the wall—how did she not notice the day before?—and a rope system brings up a tray with some fresh fruit and a note. She jumps out of the bed.

_ Pull twice to send it back. I don’t know what you like, so... enjoy the wide selection. _

The cup is filled with some familiar fruit—plums from Morfis, Noa fruits, peaches—and some she has never seen before.

Wait, did Claude—the Prince!!—himself prepare it?

After the sweet breakfast, Ingrid leaves the room and sees Claude waiting for her, as expected. The pale yellow of his silk jacket does wonders to his figure. Too bad for the loose sleeves...

“Thank you. The fruit was delicious.”

He smiles at her. Perhaps her gesture yesterday didn’t really manage to fix the awkwardness between them.

“What are the plans for the day?” she asks.

“I say we check up on Arthur and then we visit the library.”

“Yes, let’s do that!”

Arthur is a ladykiller. The attendants of the stable flock over him, giving him pats, combing his coat just one more time, and spoiling him rotten. His long hair is adorned with small winged clips.

“Aren’t you one handsome, lucky man?” Ingrid asks him, resting her face against his nozzle.

Claude snorts, and that is enough for Arthur to kick the ground.

“I was kidding,” he adds, defensively.

“How much are these?” she asks, running her hand in Arthur’s long hair and making sure to avoid displacing the clips.

Claude repeats the question in Almyran and an attendants chips in with a cheerful voice.

“Free, apparently. Arthur’s paying them back with his…” Claude curls his nose. “...blessings.”

Ingrid nods. “They work wonders on the vegetables.” Only if the soil is already fertile, she adds to herself. Not even the pegasi can help with the arid fields in the Galatea territory…

“Has he made any friends?”

Claude translates again and another attendant gives an extensive answer.

“Apparently there’s some more pegasi here, without the horn. He shared some of his treats with them, and even brought one to my wyvern.”

Ingrid squeals in delight. “Will you tell Dorte about your new friends when you see him?”

“Arthur’s friends with Marianne’s horse?”

After the visit to the stables, Ingrid pays a quick visit to her room to change. She wouldn’t want to visit the library while smelling like horse.

Her usual teal jacket is too warm even for the palace, and she decides against wearing it. She fishes a corset with some chest support from her bag and fumbles with the strings.

Claude is on the other side of the door, listening. It makes her feel rather self-conscious.

Once her boots are on, she looks at herself in the mirror. She didn’t even have a mirror in her room, until… well, the day before.

The library of the palace makes her gasp from wonder. Despite being much bigger than the one in Garreg Mach, it smells the same—it smells like knowledge. It’s dark and quiet, to preserve centuries old tomes from the wear and tear of time.

Ingrid is about to run towards the shelves when she realizes that all the books must be in Almyran.

“I thought the monastery had an impressive collection… it pales in comparison to this,” she whispers.

Claude smirks. “That’s what happens when you don’t try to control knowledge.”

Ingrid thinks back at the purged history of Fódlan and at Daphnel of the Ten Elites, who slayed a Nabatean and claimed their blood, the same blood that makes Lúin glow in her hands.

“There are some books in Fódlanese in that corner.” Claude points at her left. “And, please don’t take it as patronizing, the picture books… there, I think.” He points at the stairs to the second floor.

“There are books in Fódlanese as well?”

“Of course. How else was I supposed to learn it when I was a child?”

Fair point. Ingrid walks to the left corner and looks for a familiar alphabet. In there, she finds the classics; she takes gently an ancient copy of _ Loog and the Maiden of Wind _. It’s an old edition, and the illustrations catch her attention. Loog was less handsome two hundred years ago… she skims through her favorite passages, looking for differences. There are none.

Perhaps Claude can show her some similar Almyran tales? She could look at the illustrations while he summarizes the story.

...oh. That’s why he told her where to find the picture books. She places _ Loog _back into the shelf and walks to the second floor. She can see Claude from there, with a pile of dusty tomes and a freshly lit candle. She shouldn’t bother him.

Unable to read the titles, Ingrid resorts to looks. She takes the most recent looking books from the shelves and studies the covers—she would hate to damage the most ancient and precious volumes.

She goes back to Claude with several books in tow and sits at his table.

He looks focused and she doesn’t disturb him. She opens the first artbook, a colorful collection of landscapes. What technique could the artist have used to reproduce the views in such faithful detail? She doesn’t recognize any of the places illustrated in the book—not the arid mountains, not the lush oasis in the desert, not the busy streets. There is much she still doesn’t know.

After a while, Claude closes his own book with a groan. Ingrid hushes him and he sticks out his tongue.

“Claude! You are a noble!” she whispers with a frown.

“I’m gracing you with the view of my noble tongue.” He picks up a book from her pile and looks at it with a grin. “Interesting choice you have here.”

“Why?” It’s an artbook focused on portraits. Ingrid picked it up because the gorgeous sketch on the cover, so soft and alive, caught her attention.

“Let’s just say that age made the artist focused on one thing in particular.” Claude places the book on the table and shows her a page towards the end.

It’s a sketch of a woman, bathing. She’s scrubbing her arm with a sponge, unassuming, and the angle covers her breasts.

“That’s an artistic nude.” Her cheeks feel hot. “I’m not that much of a prude.”

He flips a page and covers part of it with his hand. His fingers hide from her eyes the nakedness of a man. Unlike the unassuming woman, the man is looking at the viewer and stroking his beard.

“Another… artistic… work.”

Claude is about to move his hand when she stops him.

“Huh~? Don’t you want to admire the artwork in its full glory?”

“I’ll live without the experience.”

Claude hums in acknowledgement. “It’s supposed to represent Khidr, one of the Almyrans heroes of old.”

Ingrid squeezes his hand.

“He was the leader of the Royal Fleet and conquered half of Morfis by himself, many centuries ago,” he tells her. “My wyvern is named after him.”

His smile looks almost tender. The candle light makes his smile soft.

“Are there any books on Khidr?”

“Your eyes are sparkling.” Claude leans in. “They’re very pretty.” He tilts his head, looking for her reaction.

This is not empty praise. He truly thinks that. Again,Ingrid doesn’t know what to say. It’s a better attempt than the day before—tamer, and her heart doesn’t mind that, it’s already beating faster from his words alone.

“Yours look very kind and very pretty as well.”

He chuckles and puts his other hand on hers. The simple touch makes her almost sigh. When he moves her hand from the book, her eyes fall on the illustration, on the trousers that cover the man’s lower half.

“...Claude.”

He chuckles to himself. “Pranked. You should have seen your face.”

“Claude!”


	3. Chapter 3

Ingrid fiddles with the thin blanket, unable to sleep. The lazy day she spent at the library with Claude didn’t burn enough of her energy, and she can’t help feeling restless. Dinner was delicious and set a warm torpor in her body, but it dissipated quickly once her mind started to roam.

She hasn’t seen the Queen around after the feast of the day before… Claude seems intimidated by the woman so he might be avoiding her. His carefully constructed façade showed its cracks when his mother pinched his cheek with a fond expression.

Ingrid thinks back at her arrival, at her winged steed descending with grace on the marble-paved road to the castle. Ingrid pictures Arthur instead of the white wyvern, and herself on the reins, surrounded by soldiers. The image lasts one second, but it’s enough to make her cover her mouth with a clammy hand.

The third option. Not a knight for House Blaiddyd, not a wife exchanged for monetary relief.

Both and neither at the same time.

Ingrid jumps out of bed. Wild thoughts race in her mind; who does she think she is, picturing herself as the Queen? She is unable to care for the people of Galatea, what makes her think she is worthy of leading Almyra? She doesn’t even speak their language! Surely, Claude couldn’t… she wasn’t…

She hurries to the clothes she left on the chair. Why did the Goddess make corsets so damn complicated to put on?

Once she’s dressed, she climbs out of the window. She needs to squeeze herself through the vertical hole, but her feet touch the ground before she’s fully out, so she manages. How convenient for her room to be on the ground floor and close to the stables… can Claude have predicted her secret meeting with Arthur?

Ingrid slaps Claude’s face out of her mind. Not now, he can’t distract her now. She needs to verbalize her thought process, use words to rein in the wild ideas that bubble in her head, tell _ someone _, anyone who can understand her. 

The garden outside of her room is poorly lit, but unguarded. She breathes a sigh of relief—any guard would be justified in attacking her, guest or not, given her late night sneaking around. As quietly as possible, she makes her way to the stables. The moon shines bright in the sky and shows her the way.

The attendant outside the stables is dozing off, wide legged on a tiny stool. Ingrid clears her throat and the man wakes up, looking miserable. How late is it?

She apologizes in Almyran and even bows, then her tongue fails her. She doesn’t know how to ask for Arthur. Since he’s a new addition to the stables and she is also a new face, her point should come across anyway. Ingrid points at herself and mimes the flap of wings with her hands.

The attendant nods sleepily and opens the door to the stables for her. Easier than expected! When she steps inside, the smell of hay and horse hits her nose—familiar and somewhat comforting.

Arthur’s eyes light up when he sees her. 

“Hey there!” she whispers with a smile. Ingrid reaches his stall, thankful for the hay that makes her steps quiet. Arthur’s white coat is particularly beautiful in the moonlight, but the attendant didn’t give her a key, so she’s locked out. Ingrid sighs and puts her head against the wooden door of his stall. 

“You know, Claude—” She starts a sentence but can’t finish it. It sounds ridiculous. _ It can’t be. _

Arthur kicks the ground and points his horn to the wyvern stalls.

“Yes, him.” Ingrid starts to pet his long hair softly, careful not to ruin the winged clips that make him so pretty. “He loitered in Fhirdiad for days after announcing his plan to leave for Almyra… he probably _ intended _to arrive on the same day as the Queen.”

Ingrid doubts it’s a coincidence, and doubts the planning has been done out of filial love.

“He wanted me to see her,” she whispers. Arthur’s answer is a breathy whinny. “He mentioned multiple times a third option, something that I had to _ see _ to consider…” Everything falls into place in her mind; he wasn’t subtle in planning his little scheme, and undressing in front of her, and asking her to dance, yet a little voice insists. _ Why? _ What does he have to gain from her?

Ingrid retracts her hand from Arthur’s long locks as her most recent memories of Claude wash over her.

She feels Claude’s short beard under her fingertips. She sees his grin, warm and open, tinged with mischief. The smell of spices that lingered on his skin after the bath tickles her nose, washes out the hay and the horse for a brief moment. The fine hair on his chest makes her want to run her hands through it. His strong arms around her, careful and warm, are an illusion that she can feel too easily.

Her self-esteem might prevent Ingrid from thinking herself worthy, but she is a rational person. She knows Claude, knows first-hand that he is very deliberate in everything he does.

“He wants to marry me,” she blurts out. Arthur snorts, and that makes her chuckle. “He’s being so infuriatingly _ Claude _about the whole affair, I agree with you.”

His attempts at seduction have been roundabout at best, and doomed to fail. He expected her to resist him out of sheer integrity and willpower.

...were they that roundabout?

Ingrid remembers his low whispers and his arousal pressing against her; there was nothing indirect about it, far from it, yet he still had an excuse ready.

A question pops up in her mind, insistent. _ Why her? _

Sure, they had gotten close during the war, and yes, they did spend a lot of time together in the Cardinal’s Room, looking at maps and mulling over routes for the troops… it was inevitable for her to rely on him and protect him on the battlefield—not like he needed much protection, but taking the occasional spell for him while he sniped the offending mage was something she didn’t mind. When they were on sky watch together they often extended their morning rides well into the afternoon, but they were being thorough; that included getting to know him, but it was inevitable.

“I don’t understand what he sees in me.” 

Arthur looks at her and softly shakes his head. 

“You’re biased.” 

This time Arthur has the gall to snort.

Claude, with a brilliant mind and the political finesse to keep a crumbled Alliance intact, with a sweet grin and dangerous words that make her chest feel like a dark pit, and his green eyes on her… 

Claude _ with _ her. _ Yes _ , screams a voice inside her mind. _ Why me? _ yells another voice.

When her eyes feel heavy, Ingrid says goodbye to Arthur with a kiss. The attendant is fast asleep outside of the stables, and his soft snoring is almost cute. She closes the door of the stables as quietly as possible. The walk to her window is quick, and she slips inside her window avoiding scratches or bruises.

Ingrid is almost disappointed when a certain handsome man is not waiting for her, poking fun at her little tryst, but it’s unreasonable to expect him ready and willing in the dead of the night.

She discards her clothes on the floor, curling her nose. They smell like horse and her hair does, too; she is too tired to come up with an excuse, she’ll have to think up one in the morning. 

When Ingrid lies on her bed, too big for a single person, she thinks about how nice it would be to feel Claude pressed against her back, and is too tired to scold herself for having such inappropriate thoughts.

Despite the remarkable lack of sleep, Ingrid is up bright and early. The area under her eyes is a bit darker than usual, but she will survive. She is almost running out of clothes…

She leaves her room with a pang of guilt, and starts walking around the palace, looking for an attendant to assist her. The ornate carpets in the various halls tell stories, just like the tapestries in Faerghus, and she feels almost bad for walking over such artistry. She will have to ask Claude about the battle depicted in the carpets. Maybe Khidir is on them as well!

Instead of getting flustered like the day before, Ingrid mimes to the first attendant she finds the steps of the bath. After looking lost for a second, the woman nods and gestures for her to follow.

The bath is as wonderful and energizing as the one of the previous day, despite a gentler scrub. Ingrid braids her hair like usual before walking out of the bathhouse. Claude is lounging in the waiting room, munching on an apple. Her heart skips a beat when her eyes fall on him. His silk jacket is more elaborate than the day before, yet still simple and elegant, and loose enough to hide his muscular arms. A shame.

“Hey.” He greets her with a subdued version of his staple grin. “You gave me a scare. I thought you had run away.” 

He offers her a peach and she takes the fruit in her hands. _ What is happening? _There is something different about him, a slight edge. Did he truly think she could run away?

“I simply needed a bath,” is what she ends up saying. It happens to be the truth as well, how convenient for her.

Claude bites into the apple with a thoughtful face, the kind of expression one has when pondering the soundness of tactical plans. Ingrid should eat as well, but her stomach is upside down. Yesterday she was so sure; she told Arthur, without a doubt, that Claude wanted to marry her. The idea seems ridiculous, now, despite his clear worry.

She tastes the peach, sweet and ripe, and forces herself to gulping down the fruit before asking: “What are the plans for the day?” 

She hasn’t lost her manners.

“I have been a terrible host.” Claude’s lips curve in a mischievous smile. He tilts his head, like he always does when he has a great idea. “I have yet to show you the city.”

“I would love to see it!”

Before they leave the palace, Claude guides her to a small room in the basement of the palace, where herbs hang from the ceiling and the air has a fragrant, dusty quality.

An old man is sitting behind a wooden counter, working with a mortar. Claude startles him when he starts speaking, and the wrinkly apothecary points at the expanse of shelves at the back of the room.

“I’ll be right back.”

Ingrid recognizes some of the flowers left to dry inside tall bottles, despite her little knowledge in floral matters.

When Claude is back, he shows her a small vial filled with a milky substance. The glint in his eyes makes it easy for her to slip into their routine bickering.

“Should I be worried?”

“Absolutely.” He opens the vial once they’re back in the hallway, and the floral smell is strong and familiar—it belongs to the tiny, white flowers in the moonlit garden. Claude pours some of the liquid in his palm before turning towards her.

“Claude?”

“Your skin will burn if we stay out in the sun too long,” he says softly. The gentle tone makes her feel very aware that they are alone, so she nods, unable to say anything when he gets close enough for her to blush. “May I?”

His fingers tap into the liquid and touch her face almost reverently. Claude traces circles on her skin and spreads the milky lotion with careful, deliberate motions, keeping his eyes on her the whole time.

Ingrid doesn’t need the sun, she is burning _ now _ under his ministrations. After he is done with her cheek, Claude dips a fingertip in the liquid and traces her lips. His touch lingers, tender; his own jaw hardens before he spreads the liquid on the other cheek, under her watchful eyes.

For someone with such a hate for common sense and manners, he is showing remarkable restraint, skirting the line of appropriateness in every attempt. Almost as if…

The realization makes Ingrid cover her chest with her hands, cover the thunderous sound of her heartbeat.

_Almost as if he wants her to be the proper yet improper one, and ask_ _him_. It’s a stretch, but it would fit Claude, guarded until the end. He gambled on Derdriu, but does not want to gamble on his own future. 

Once Claude is done rubbing the lotion, his hand cups her face. “ All done.” His thumb strokes her cheek, feather-light, before he parts from her. “I should have done it yesterday… looks like you already have a sunburn.”

Ingrid can’t help it, her cheeks feel hot. “I was about to say the same about you!” She teases back, but her words have no bite. “If I didn’t know you any better, I’d see the flush on your face and assume you’re flustered.”

Food has no language barrier, she repeats to herself sadly while chewing on some deliciously spiced lamb meat. The food stalls of the capital tempt her with all kinds of smells, but she can’t read the menus scribbled in chalk over a board, and only has a handful of Fódlanese coins, useless in Almyra.

Claude takes pity on her, orders a snack and pays.

“What’s with the pout?” he asks, reaching for the meat still on the skewer. “Not your thing?”

“Hands off the goods!” Ingrid protects her snack with a frown. “It’s amazing, I need to savour it properly.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He looks anything but sorry.

“I want to pay you back, but I only have Fódlan’s currency on me.”

Claude dismisses her with a wave. “My treat.”

“But I can’t—” Ingrid’s eyes fall on a man in the crowd, looking at the backs of a group of people perusing the silks of a stall. _ Suspicious _.

She taps Claude’s shoulder and nods towards the man’s direction.

“Mmh?”

The man covers his arm with the long sleeve of his robe and leans onto a woman; the bag that hangs open behind her back is shielded from sight by his body. A pickpocket! Those are not unique to Fódlan, it seems.

Ingrid takes all of the remaining meat in her mouth and gives the empty skewer to Claude.

“What are you going?”

She marches towards the pickpocket and grabs his wrist through the loose sleeve, just as his hand closes around a satchel of coins.

The man yells something she can’t understand, and that makes the woman shriek and look back.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She is met with a string of Almyran curses, so she forces the pickpocket to raise his arm, to show everybody what he just tried to steal. Claude is among the small crowd around her and looks amused. Will he not help? Very well.

Ingrid points at the satchel, then at the woman. The lady’s eyes light up with understanding as she plucks the money from the hands of the petty thief. Ingrid recognizes some words, she’s thanking her!

Before she answers, she needs to deal with the pickpocket, who thinks he’s fast enough to catch her by surprise. Ingrid intercepts a punch with her other hand and pushes back. “Nice try.”

Claude’s voice rings loud and clear above the crowd, but she can’t understand him. She also can’t understand the pickpocket, but it doesn’t take much to imagine what kind of insults he’s throwing at her. When two lightly armored men enter Ingrid’s view and grab the pickpocket by his arms, she lets him go. They address her and she’s lost. Are they thanking her? _ Arresting _her? Where is Claude?

A familiar hand closes around hers and she lets herself get pulled away from the crowd.

“Run!” Claude’s eyes glitter with glee as they sprint towards the end of the main street, using the stalls as cover.

“Why are we running?” she yells, sidestepping an old man.

Are the guards following them? Did she commit a crime?

“I’m afraid they’ll try to arrest you for brawling in the middle of the market.” He sounds too happy about it!

“I wasn’t _ brawling _in the middle of the market!”

The side streets look like a maze to her. After running for some more minutes, Claude guides her to a blind alley. He’s slacking off, he looks out of breath. He makes sure the guards aren’t following them anymore by peeking from the corner.

“You know, being the Prince doesn’t make me above the law.” His smirk is back, easy and devilish, as he leans against the wall. He’s still holding her hand and he pulls her close to him.

“You called the guards like any sensible, law-abiding citizen should have done.”

Claude covers his mouth in fake shock. “That sounds almost like a compliment.”

It’s her turn to pretend exasperation. “When have you ever minded praise?”

“It’s so rare, coming from you, that I might feel dizzy and faint.” An old excuse, the dizziness, but Claude doesn’t give her time for a rebuttal. He gets closer and makes their shoulders touch.

Ingrid has to look up to see his face, clouded by one of the rare expressions she can’t decipher quite yet.

“You know… we’re so close, like this, that innocent passersby might mistake us for lovers.” His tone is light, but his eyes betray him. He’s not letting his guard down, he is still roundabout about it.

She squeezes his hand. “What of it?” An open question that he can interpret how he likes. Ingrid doubts they will traumatize anyone in a blind alley, and they are hardly doing something improper.

Claude’s eyebrows give away his surprise, carefully schooled into a neutral expression. “I was convinced you would mind.”

“I don’t see what you could possibly gain by becoming my lover,” she says quickly, before her nerves make her stutter.

Claude leans on her with a frown. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Ingrid shakes her head.

“I mean, you did call yourself _ someone lowly as myself _—” he quotes in a falsetto that doesn’t sound anything like her voice, “—but I didn't think you actually believed, you know, to be lowly.” He looks into her eyes and tries to make her weaver, but she stands his gaze. She is not asking him to massage her ego, she wants to know. Before she decides, she must know.

He is the one who loses their little contest and hides his face in her hair. “I wouldn’t gain any political upper hand, nothing of sorts.” _ By being your lover. _ He breathes in deeply, she holds her breath. “But it would make me happy.”

For someone so eager to throw feasts to improve morale, Claude very rarely mentions his own happiness. 

Ingrid squeezes his clammy hand again. “I make you happy?”

“It sounds childish, I know.” He chuckles, nervous, still hiding his face. “I seek you out because when your eyes are on me, I feel as if I could grow wings and fly.”

Poetic. He does read poetry on the regular, she reminds herself. 

Ingrid’s thoughts shatter before she can fully form them, and her hands are shaking. She didn’t march on Enbarr to fail _ now _, she didn’t see the war through to freeze up in a blind alley in Almyra.

Claude is her way out. Not a knight for House Blaiddyd, not the wife of a faceless noble; a warrior queen with Claude at her side.

Ingrid lets his hand go and, before he can say anything, she cups his face to make him look her way. His green eyes are beautiful. “Fly,” she whispers, raising on tiptoes to brush their lips together. Her whole body feels the contact like a lightning shock. He places his arms around her waist and pulls her flush against his body, so warm against her, and solid and _ finally _.

She threads her hands in his hair and the smell of spices tickles her nose.

“That’s unfair.” His breath ghosts over her lips. “I can’t do the same.”

They kiss again and again, gently yet more daring after each brief touch. Her whole body burns and yearns his; the ache is a rare feeling, not a new one, but its intensity leaves Ingrid breathless from the longing. She touches his arms, feeling the solidness of his muscles through the silk, then runs her hands on his back. She wants to touch more, she wants to see him without the cruel silk that wraps him, but she is not allowed to have more, not while they’re hiding in a blind alley.

“Kissing out of wedlock,” he whispers, brushing his lips on her own again, so sweetly. “How scandalous.”

Ingrid parts from him to catch her breath. She needs it if she wants to ask him the question that will seal her future.

A knight shows no hesitation. 

“Will you marry me?”

She doesn’t know what to expect after her words fall around them. Bashfulness? It’s _ Claude _. Delight? Maybe. Giddiness? It would be reasonable.

Instead, Claude looks like the cat that got the cream, so smug, so handsome. His voice betrays him and breaks when he answers with a simple: “Yes.”

It’s Ingrid’s turn to lean on the wall. Her knees feel weak. She let doubt gnaw at her for years, she allowed it to make her second guess her decisions—no more.

She has decided.

“What’s with that face?” he asks tenderly, cupping her cheek.

“I know what to do.”

It’s a clumsy answer, but he understands. He kisses her forehead. “How does it feel?”

“Liberating. I feel lighter.” She raises her head to look at him. “I want to marry you.” 

“I don’t know what I would do with myself if you didn’t.” Claude chuckles and takes a step away. “Quite literally since, well, we’ve been engaged for two days already.”

Ingrid blinks, stupefied. The blush on her cheeks is replaced by quiet horror. He takes another step back, looking so proud of himself, so infuriatingly _ happy _.

“The Almyran formal greeting…” she whispers weakly.

“_ Your Majesty, I still don’t know it myself, but the reason I’m here is to ask for the hand of your son in marriage _,” he recites with glee, in falsetto.

The King… the Queen as well… they were not only well aware of the whole situation… they were his accomplices!

Claude jumps out of her reach before she can grab him.

“Claude, come here.”

“Nuh-huh, I don’t want to get hurt~”

They stare at each other for a second. Her eyebrows furrowed so much that they start to hurt. If she manages to catch him, he’s a dead man. 

Claude springs away with a stupid grin plastered on his face; he thinks he’s fast? Ingrid is faster.

“How dare you trick me!” She runs at full speed, ready to tackle him on the ground. “I’ll make you regret it! You will apologize to me!”

He looks back briefly. “You’re still going to marry me, right?”

“Of course I am!” she yells. “Now come here if you have the guts to face me!”

**Author's Note:**

> "But while the queen chasing the fleeing king through the palace was a common occurrence, the couple must have loved one another deeply, for they happily raised many children together." Ingrid got to be the successor of the warrior goddess/demon queen Claude is so scared of, which is not quite like being a knight, but is still pretty lit.  
I hope you liked the final chapter as well! This was very fun to write :)


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